Rao-Bak Pt. 15 (Finale)
CHAPTER XV.
The Better Part of Me
Waki sat upon the hill gazing at the distant tree line. Her fingers clasped around her feet, feeling the snakeskin lining of her moccasins. She hadn’t moved from there since that morning when Rao-Bak had vanished without a word.
Whispers persisted among disgruntled tribesmen and elders. Some suggested Ki-Rot had fled his challenge, but they had seen nothing of the Apache, either. Others wondered if he had abandoned his love and rejoined his own tribe. Perhaps he had truly been in league with the Spanish or some other white group and was gathering them to march on both tribes. He could have been a scout for the Spanish, French, or even the Colonies. After all, what did they really know about him?
Waki refused such rumors. She knew that Rao-Bak was no coward, no turncoat. He had rescued her twice when he stood to gain nothing. Rao-Bak had risked his life for the tribe in battle. His might was like no other man ever seen. Only a fool would name him a coward. Yet that left only another, far grimmer possibility, one which she dared not entertain.
Waki heaved her heart into her throat, sat upon her knees, and bent her head in solemn prayer. She feared lifting her face lest she again see the steeds of the Apache emerging from the trees. Her heart skipped a beat. Something like a ghost staggered from the edge of the forest. Its white shirt billowed like a sail in the wind, and its cloth was smattered with blood. Her blood froze at the thought of a grim spirit coming to claim her, or some dour forest demon come to taunt her with auguries of doom. She marked its swaying, staggering gait like a tottering corpse. Then, she marked the long, blonde hair dangling before its face, and she gasped sharply.
In a second, she was on her feet and bolting for the woods. She was practically tripping over her dress as she tore downhill. She breathlessly crossed the wide prairie to its very center. There, she threw her arms around the neck of Rao-Bak, squeezing him tightly as if to anchor him. She looked into his eyes and saw the emptiness behind them.
Rao-Bak seemed to look through her for a moment. Then, his brows furrowed, as if realizing some obstruction blocked his way. His eyes met hers, and his face softened.
Waki gasped as she glimpsed the bloody fist clenching the knife at his side. “What happened?” she gasped. She gripped his shoulders. “You were attacked! Are you hurt? Ki-Rot!”
“No,” Rao-Bak sighed absently. He kept his eyes on her, filling the void with her face. “I must wash my hands.”
Waki took his arm. “Come! We shall see to you in camp! You are certain you are unhurt?”
“Sit,” he whispered.
“What?”
“I…need to sit…a while.”
“What can I get you?”
He turned his head to look at her, and his eyes were wide and almost fearful. It was as if he were suddenly upon the precipice of that vast cliff once again. “Stay with me,” he pleaded. “Please…I must look at something…beautiful.”
***
After washing his hands, Waki had tried offering him food in her tent, but Rao-Bak would not eat. After much persuading, she convinced him to drink, and he drained the jug again. She told him Kuruk and many of the braves had gone hunting. At least on the surface, it appeared so. Most of the tribe surmised he was scouting the borders since the Apache had not shown up in some time.
Rao-Bak sat in the dark of her tent, holding her close to him. He only half-heard her words, but parts of him had been littered behind him on his journey. Part of it lay with his mother in the den, part with his father in the earth, and part with Naiche by the riverbank.
They knew not how long they had sat in silence before Dehahuit suddenly appeared. He stuck his head through the tent flap and spoke gravely. “Ki-Rot, we have just returned from the hunt. We heard you had returned. The chief wishes to speak with you.” He turned a sympathetic gaze to Waki and elaborated, “Both of you.”
When the pair departed the tent and followed the brave to the council tent, they found the tribe frozen and arrayed in a gauntlet along the path. Their enigmatic gazes were mostly at Rao-Bak, who moved somberly behind Dehahuit, clasping Waki’s hand in his own.
Inside the council tent, they were met by the somber gazes of the council members like grim inquisitors. Kuruk sat among them around the smoldering ashes of the council fire. In the dim light through the top of the tent, he appeared ancient and tired.
“You were gone some time, Ki-Rot,” he said gravely, yet not unkindly. “My daughter was quite distressed. Where have you been?”
“You would not have called me here had you no inkling,” replied Rao-Bak quietly.
Kuruk stroked his chin and gazed searchingly at him. “My kin say they saw blood on your hands when you returned. Quite a lot of blood. Why was this?”
“I had hunted,” replied Rao-Bak flatly.
“You hunted? On the day of your duel?” queried one elder incredulously.
“I owed a debt of blood,” replied Rao-Bak, “and I paid it in full.”
“Where is Naiche, Ki-Rot!” snapped another elder with a stamp of his foot. Why have the Apache been tardy just as you? Do not think to propose coincidence!”
“No. No coincidence,” replied Rao-Bak firmly. He looked straight into Kuruk’s eyes and raised his voice for the assembly. “Naiche was my game! I owed a blood debt to my mother, and that debt has been paid!”
An uproar rose from the council. Kuruk remained seated, meeting Rao-Bak’s eyes with an enigmatic stare.
“Mayhap you are a beast after all!” roared one member. “You would propose a duel and then dishonor us all in the eyes of Apache and Caddo alike by your duplicity?”
“Naiche drew first blood!” barked Rao-Bak fiercely. “He and his ally sent men to my den! This very morning, the soil of my father’s burial still stuck beneath my fingernails ere I tore Naiche’s flesh! Do not speak to me of honor!” He cast his challenging glare around the flinching elders. “What man of you would have done less for a father lost? Blood here—blood there; what difference does it make? Did Naiche show honor when he slew the white priests? Or when he stole away your daughter? When I, a stranger, struck down your enemies to return your daughter, you welcomed me as a brother. When I strike down the same beast that preyed upon her, you chide me like a toothless whelp? Are you men?” He roared. “A beast that lacked reason would have exacted this justice! You fear armies? Did I not drive them back? Did the Caddo come to your aid in that fight? Or hereafter? No! I—alone—though you knew me not! I invaded their very camp and took Waki despite their numbers. You think I cannot do the same for the white priests?” He pointed a finger at Kuruk. “I have lost a father, Kuruk Redmoon. You have regained a daughter. Did you ever seek justice, or do you rule sitting on your hands?”
The council bit their lips and fell into grave silence. For a space, not even the wind could be heard through the peak of the tent. Finally, Kuruk spoke somberly, “Leave me with Ki-Rot.” There was no anger or malice in his tone. The council all rose and filed out of the tent, taking care to give Rao-Bak a wide berth.
When at last he was alone with Rao-Bak, Kuruk sighed deeply and rubbed his eyes. “Ki-Rot…I must make you understand this. God help me, it would have been better had we never met on the field of buffalo.” He caught the shocked expression of the boy and smiled. “Oh, do not think my love for you has diminished. Nor think me ungrateful for my daughter’s salvation. Were things different, I…” he shook his head. “You have been caught up, Ki-Rot, in a folly far greater than you realize…greater than my own daughter realizes.”
Rao-Bak cocked his head and gave a bewildered look. He remained silent—a sign for the chief to continue.
“Naiche,” sighed Kuruk, “is not the only one securing lucrative alliances…You must understand that the land is pinned on both sides—the Spanish from the east and French from the west. I saw the potential for trade, the same as Naiche. When the white priests arrived to revive their old mission, I thought I might ingratiate myself to the Spanish by offering them my friendship. Then more tribes began taking sides with the French or Spanish, while others either remained neutral or fled north or south. But I…” he chuckled wryly to himself. “I thought I could cheat the game. I courted the French with furs and the Spanish with spices and protection for the missions. I supposed either both would treat us as mutual trade partners, or I could wait and see which ones established the further presence.”
Rao-Bak listened closely, his body rigid. He could think of nothing, but like a sponge, merely absorbed Kuruk’s words in silence.
“The confederacy remained neutral in the competition but tried…helping things along. When trade was poor in one sector, we would threaten to take our business to the other. We convinced them that the better trade routes were reserved for the more lucrative traders. Being strategically located near the river, we were in a unique position. One year we gave the Spanish the best bargains, and another year, the French.” He exhaled. “Then, the Apache came. They had begun frequenting their raids further south. Yet we thought this opportune. We thought our confederacy was strong enough. If we exaggerated the threat of the Apache to the Europeans, then we could narrow down one or the other as a committed ally. Thereby, we could establish a long-term partnership. Furthermore, we could have better access to firearms and other such utilities, nullifying the Apache threat.” He lifted a hand helplessly, “But…”
“You did not expect Bartolome,” guessed Rao-Bak quietly.
Kuruk nodded. “He was an unaffiliated party, but had good relations to Spain, giving him an edge. I think he had been a privateer in the past. We also thought strengthening our control of the river and its resources would signal to Spain we were more valuable. We also increased trade and good relations with the mission to this effect when they tried to revive it.”
“You used the priests,” whispered Rao-Bak, stunned. “You thought you could appeal to them to facilitate trade and goodwill with the Spanish. You thought…the Apache would not attack for fear of Spanish retaliation.” His voice became hoarse. “You involved them to shield yourself and provoke the Spanish to action!”
Kuruk didn’t respond.
“But…you did not account for Bartolome,” concluded Rao-Bak almost in a daze.
“With Bartolome joining ranks with the Apache, they became bolder, seeing him as a direct through line to the Spanish,” confirmed Kuruk bitterly. “Naiche convinced them the Apache alliance would only be secure if I gave up my daughter to show my loyalty to Spain…and to him.” He gazed forlornly into the smoldering council fire. “I refused.”
Rao-Bak was speechless. He stood, staring at Kuruk in the tent. He heard nothing but the chief’s words echoing an infernal loop in his brain. He thought of the battlefield, of the charnel pit in the woods, the monk that died pleading in his arms. Finally, he thought of Ohbao-Bak buried on the hilltop where his son’s vanity had been all their undoing.
“I am sorry, Ki-Rot,” said Kuruk softly. “But my only path forward is to cut ties with Naiche’s murderer. Waki is young. Perhaps they shall have another son to heal this strife.” He stood, and the elders stood with him. Then, with firm voice he declared, “Rao-Bak, you have no place here. Go forth…and Dehe have mercy upon you.”
As the council filed around Rao-Bak and departed through the tent flap, the wolf boy sat silently in the dark. He stared at the glaring beam of sunlight through the tent peak until he was alone in the stifling silence. Finally, he rose shakily to his feet, turned, and stared a moment at the tent flap. Finally, he slowly, tremblingly, parted through it.
He found the tribe gauntleted on either side, including mounted braves. All stared gravely and silently at him as the smoke of the cooking fires was blown by the wind across the ground. He moved between them like a ghost, slowly meandering through the silent tipis.
“Rao!” came a scream, and he turned to one side to see Waki rushing through the crowd. At the barked order of a mounted brave, two other braves intercepted her, restraining her arms as she struggled, weeping.
Rao-Bak’s split-second impulse was to hurl himself at the line of braves and break through to Waki. His body tensed as the hole in his heart grew bigger. He tried to fill it again with her face. He heard her screams fade away as she was dragged back through the crowd and vanished. Only the impassive wall of grim faces remained.
He drifted away like a ship lost at sea. His body felt like led as he left the tipis behind him and found himself crossing the prairie. He stopped for a moment and turned his head. It felt like hardly a minute, but he was already halfway across the prairie. He stared at the wisps of smoke and the painted tipis far behind. How amazed he had been the first day he saw them, and yet wary. Now they reminded him of rows of teeth chewing and spitting him back out.
Rao-Bak turned his eyes back to the forest's edge. The monolithic pines now bore a darkness he could not see. He felt suddenly that a thousand eyes watched him, waiting. He stopped by the small mound at its edge, where Obaoh-Bak took his final rest. “My portion,” came the whispered words under his breath.
He thought of the den, of his mother and brothers, and he knew he could not return. He could not risk putting them in danger again. With Naiche dead, the Apache would be out for blood, and Bartolome would be at their head. Rao-Bak’s sighing words were swallowed in the trees. “What is…my portion?”
He slipped the tomahawk from his belt, and it dangled like a weight from his hand. Without another word, he drifted like a specter through the pines and vanished in the shade.
******************************************End of Book 1*****************************************
Now we reach the final chapter of Rao-Bak, the first volume in my forthcoming pulp western series. Be sure to keep an eye out for subsequent installments. If you enjoyed this story and would like to be notified of my future work, please subscribe below.